Serpent's Tooth
by Alchemine
Summary: Fresh out of Hogwarts, Tom Riddle arrives in Little Hangleton for an unconventional family reunion. Complete.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Spoilers: **First two books. 

**Rating**: Probably PG.

"Excuse me, miss."

The voice seemed to come out of nowhere, smooth and courteous and with a faint lilt to it, as if the speaker were secretly amused at himself. It nearly made Ellen drop her armful of wet washing.

She looked up, squinting against bright June sun, and discovered a dark-haired young man standing at the end of the garden path. 

"Did I frighten you?" he asked.

"Just startled," Ellen said. She piled the sodden heap of clothes back into the wicker laundry basket and dried her hands on her skirt. "Where did you pop up from? I never saw you coming." As she spoke, she took a few steps back toward her house – he looked friendly, but you couldn't be too careful these days. Anyone could be an enemy spy, even a handsome boy with a voice like silk.

"You were busy," said the young man, indicating her basket. He was _very_ handsome indeed, Ellen thought, and felt her cheeks grow warm. Really, he couldn't be more than seventeen or eighteen. She, an old married lady of twenty-five, and a mother to boot, had no business blushing over him. 

To her mortification, she realized that he could _tell_ how flustered he was making her. He smiled, showing white, even teeth like an American film star's. 

"Don't worry, Ellen," he said. "I need directions, that's all. I'm looking for a house that belongs to a family called Riddle. You know where it is, don't you?"

"I – yes," Ellen said. Had she told him her name? Surely she had told him and forgotten; how else could he know it? It must be the sun, the sun that was now twenty times hotter than it had been a few minutes before. Sweat was crawling down her spine and sticking the thin material of her blouse to her back. Maybe she ought to take it o— Good God, what was she thinking?

"Up the hill!" she blurted. "The house. It's up the hill. You can't miss it; it's the biggest one around for miles. Just keep following the road."

The young man nodded and gave a flippant little mockery of a military salute. "Thanks very much, Ellen. That's all I needed to know."

"Wh-what are you going to do at the Riddle House?" asked Ellen hoarsely. "They're horrible rich prigs up there. They don't allow visitors."

"They'll allow me," the young man said. "I'm family." He reached into his pocket – Ellen knew she should be alarmed by this, but her capacity for rational responses seemed to have disappeared completely – and came out with something strange in his hand, a sort of polished, pointed stick. 

"Thanks again," he said. Suddenly, she realized that his voice wasn't quite as smooth as she had thought. There was a slight defect to it; not quite a lisp, but a sort of hissing of the "s" sounds. She wished he would say something else so she could try to pick out exactly what it was -- 

And then, as if in answer to her unspoken wish, he opened his mouth and said a single word, and all remaining thought slipped away.

Later that day, when Ellen's mother came over to indulge in her usual afternoon pastimes of criticizing her daughter's housekeeping and using up more than her share of the sugar ration in her tea, she asked what Ellen had done that morning.

"Oh, not much," said Ellen, whisking the pink-flowered sugar bowl off the kitchen table before all its contents could be spooned out. "Gave the baby a bath. Hung out the washing."

"Did anyone come by?" Ellen's mother asked – her main hobby, aside from annoying her children, was maintaining her status as Little Hangleton's greatest gossip, and she was determined not to miss out on any scrap of news.

"No one," said Ellen cheerfully. "Not a soul."

To be continued …

**Next chapter**: Tom's homecoming.


	2. Homecoming

Just outside the village limits, Ellen's handsome stranger paused for a moment to look up the road she had mentioned. There loomed the Riddle House atop its hill, looking as impregnable and uninviting as a fortress. 

"Welcome home, Tom" he said softly to himself. 

The house didn't impress him as much as he suspected its owners would have liked it to. In general, Muggle notions of grandeur left him cold; next to the vast edifice of Hogwarts, even Westminster Abbey would have appeared small and ordinary, and the pictures he'd seen of some of his Slytherin contemporaries' estates put this one to shame. Still, for a Muggle house, it was fine enough, all grey stone and stained glass and ivy. To the neighbors, like the woman he'd just met, it must be suitably awe-inspiring.

He smiled a little, remembering Ellen and their encounter. It had been just what he needed to reaffirm his faith in his own power as he set off to meet this new challenge. All her secrets had been open to him, her heart and mind his to play with. She would have lain right down in the dirt of her own back garden for him if he had suggested it. 

But this wasn't the time for that sort of thing. He was here on business. And so he continued along the road, barely glancing at the little church and graveyard to his right as he passed.

Climbing the hill took only a few minutes, even on such a warm day. Soon enough, he reached the outskirts of the Riddle property, which was walled on three sides and fronted by a tall wrought-iron fence with wicked-looking spikes topping its bars. He ran his wand across the fence, _tick-tick-tick,_ in the same way a much younger boy might have trailed a stick along while walking, and murmured a few words. Then he put his hands on two of the bars and pushed them apart as easily as if they'd been made of taffy. 

An ocean of grass greeted him as he stepped inside – a lawn to rival the magically maintained one at Hogwarts, the sort of lawn whose lushness always seemed like a dream during his summers in the orphanage. At the far end of this green expanse, a lone Muggle gardener bent over a flowerbed, pulling weeds from between the blossoms. 

_Idiot. Why doesn't he just get down on his knees?_ Tom wondered. _It would be easier than hunching like that._ But then the man straightened up and limped to the next bed, favoring his right leg heavily, and it all made sense. Well, the awkwardness made sense. Why the Riddles would bother employing a defective servant, when they clearly had the money to hire anyone they wanted, was beyond comprehension. 

There was a convenient weeping willow tree growing near the entryway Tom had forced, and slipping into its circle, he watched the gardener for a while. The man did seem to know his business, in his clumsy Muggle way. He weeded all the flowers, then pulled off a pair of thick brown gardening gloves, picked up the bag of weeds and turned to go – and stopped, eyes narrowed in suspicion, as his gaze fell on the willow.

_Has he seen me?_ Tom reached for his wand, ready to wipe out the man's memory if necessary. But after a moment of sharp observation, the gardener hobbled away toward a little shed that huddled against the wall of the main house like a child clinging to its mother. That was a relief. The fewer complications, the better. 

_A Concealing Charm wouldn't hurt, though,_ Tom thought, and cast a quick one around his hiding place. As it turned out, he hadn't done it a moment too soon, because the gardener was already emerging from the shed, carrying a shovel with what looked like hostile intent. He came right up to the willow and stared through the curtain of branches, but seeing nothing, eventually shook his head and departed again.

Tom suppressed a snort of laughter at the perplexed expression on the man's face. _That's right, Muggle. I'm the amazing disappearing boy. Tell them all about it down at the pub tonight._

Deciding this would be a good enough spot to wait – it was cool and shady, at any rate – he Transfigured a stone into a cushion and made himself comfortable. But now he was bored. Twilight would not arrive for another four or five hours at least. What could he do for entertainment until then? 

Ah -- there was a trail of black ants scurrying across the dirt in front of him. Perfect. He practiced his Imperius Curse on them, making them all march to the left, then to the right, then around in circles. Then he divided them into two groups and made them attack each other. They went at it with surprising ferocity for such tiny creatures. When only one survivor remained, he crushed it with the tip of his wand.

_Appropriate,_ he thought, looking at the motionless bodies littering the ground. _It is a day for death, after all._

That, of course, was why he had come here, to the home of the only living relations he knew of. He'd found out the story of his birth years ago, when he'd first been accepted into Hogwarts. How his witch-mother had loved a Muggle man, had been abandoned for the nature she could not help, had died forsaken, surrounded by strangers. How his father had refused all responsibility for the uncanny brat he had spawned.

The revelation had hurt him at first; he would confess it. What more could anyone expect from a child? But as he'd grown and realized what he was, what he could become, that hurt had evolved into anger, and then into cold contempt. His father's acceptance or rejection was meaningless. The man was filth, a blight on an otherwise excellent lineage. He didn't deserve to live. And Tom, who had strong, if unconventional, notions of justice, meant to kill him.

He had never killed a human before, not directly anyway. Oh, he'd released the basilisk that had dispatched Mudblood Myrtle – a task the creature had carried out beautifully – but he hadn't been there when the deed was done. He was curious to see how it would feel to take a life with his own hands. It was a lovely bit of serendipity when a necessary act promised to be interesting as well.

As to whether or not he would actually be able to kill the man when it came to the moment of truth, he had no doubt. He'd been preparing for it all year, trying the Killing Curse out on various small animals he'd found running loose around Hogwarts. The cats had made especially fine targets. (_Suppose I'd caught the wrong tabby one night!_ he thought, grimacing at the idea of the bother _that_ would have caused.) He would do well; he would stay calm, the way it said in the poem. 

_If you can keep your head when all around you_

_Are losing theirs and blaming it on you --_

They'd had to memorize that at the orphanage school he'd attended in early childhood, along with all sorts of other things – their Muggle headmaster had believed firmly in the old idea that memorization was the best educational tool of all. The poem had gone on to talk about a bunch of rubbish Tom did not believe in the least, but he'd always thought there was something to that first line. He'd always kept his head no matter what happened. He meant to keep it now. His father would be very surprised at what a coolly efficient son he had, very surprised indeed.

_Where are you now, Father?_ Tom wondered. There had been no movement from the house for as long as he'd been sitting here, though he knew the family was at home – he'd seen a chauffeur polishing their sleek black automobile when he'd approached, and had not heard it driving away since. _Here I am, home for the summer, and you don't even know it. Shame on you. But that's all right – we'll be together soon enough. Oh, yes. We're going to have a lovely time._

~~~

Next chapter: The reunion

aharrypotter1fan, Sabrina Black, Ozma, Saphron, Giesbrecht, koashura, The Strange One, Jelsemium and ickle-helena – thanks for reviewing the prologue!

The quote that begins "If you can keep your head …" is from Rudyard Kipling's poem "If." (Yes, I know I quote far too much poetry. I was an English major in college – I've got to get _some_ use out of it. LOL) It's the sort of thing schoolboys had to memorize, once, and even though it's about being a fine and honorable man, a lot of it could actually be twisted to fit Tom's world-view. Strange, but true.


	3. Confrontation

_Green._  
  
Green everywhere. Green halos around the doorways, the paintings on the walls, the fine old furniture he clutched at to steady himself in passing. Green afterimages bursting like fireworks in the night when he closed his eyes. Not the verdant, living green of forests or the muted grey-green of the sea, but some shade never seen in nature.   
  
He had used too much power; more than he had ever used before; certainly more than he had planned to. They had made him so _angry_ - and then -  
  
"Here! What are you doing?"   
  
Looking up, he saw a man standing in the door to the kitchen, holding a stack of dirty plates in one hand. Some sort of servant clearing away the remains of dinner, probably, and a complication Tom did not need at the moment. When he'd begun, he'd assumed he would be able to handle problems of this sort without effort. He had hardly expected to be reeling away from the scene at half-strength.   
  
His wand was still in his hand, but did he have the power to cast another Unforgivable? He would have to try.   
  
Had the man not been a Muggle, with a Muggle's weak, untrained mind, the Imperius might not have worked - but it did. The wary face went slack, and Tom, testing out the level of control he had obtained, ordered, "Tell me your name."   
  
"John," said the man obediently.   
  
"Do you live in this house?"   
  
"No, down in the village. I was just about to go home for the night ..."  
  
"Are there any other servants inside?"   
  
"No. Frank lives out on the grounds. Kate lives in the village as well. She comes in at six to clean."   
  
"Does she?" Tom asked. "Listen, then. Go back and do your work. Do whatever you would normally do, but stay out of the drawing room. The family doesn't wish to be disturbed. Leave quietly when you've finished. You've seen nothing. You've heard nothing. Do you understand?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"What have you seen?"   
  
"Nothing."   
  
"What have you heard?"   
  
"Nothing."   
  
"Wonderful. Get out."   
  
As if in a dream, the man turned and disappeared into the kitchen, still clutching the plates.   
  
Tom lowered his wand, released a long, shuddering breath. If he could just get out of the house and find a safe place to rest a while, everything would be all right.   
  
The double doors to the dining room stood open on his left. Through them, he could see the table still spread with its white cloth and scattered with used crystal and silverware. They'd eaten a splendid meal, his family, never suspecting it was their last, never knowing he was there till he'd stepped in from the terrace.   
  
_"Who the devil are you?" his grandfather demanded. Old and shriveled he was, wincing visibly as he rose from his velvet chair. Perhaps he had arthritis, or gout, or some old injury that pained him. Muggles were victim to so many indignities as they aged.  
  
"He's a trespasser." Tom Senior didn't even bother to stand - just glanced up and then went back to staring into the blood-red heart of his wine glass. "Have him put out. Frank can still manage that much, I hope."   
  
"I'm not a trespasser. I have every right to be here. Just as much as you do."   
  
Neither of his grandparents understood what he meant, but his father knew right away. He wasn't stupid, Tom would grant him that much.   
  
"Oh, it's you, is it? I wondered if you'd turn up one day. If you've come after money, you won't get any. I gave your mother some to get rid of you when she told me she was pregnant. She wouldn't do it; said she'd raise you on her own and I could burn in Hell. She kept the money, too. I told her then that it was the last either of you would ever see from me, and I meant it. So you may as well be on your way."_  
  
Tom had been disgusted. How could the man think this was about so crass and petty a thing as money? He'd lived in the Muggle world half his life; he knew how much importance they placed on the stuff (though no much more than some wizards, if the truth be told), but to assume he was only after that - it was insulting.   
  
_"I don't want your money, Father. I'm here for something else."   
  
"Father?" That was Tom's grandmother, speaking for the first time, one wrinkled, diamond-laden hand pressed to the bosom of her dark dinner dress. "Is this ... is this that boy? Tom, you told us he was in an orphanage!"   
  
"He was," said Tom Senior. "They couldn't keep him forever. A pity we don't have workhouses any longer." He turned a look of loathing on his son. "Well, if it's not for money, then what is it for?"   
  
"I've come to kill you," Tom said simply. "For my mother, and for myself, and for my family's honor. My true family. Not you."_  
  
At that, his grandfather had let out a harsh bark of laughter. He had laughed at him. He had laughed! Had Tom harbored any thoughts of sparing him, that would have put an end to them then and there.   
  
_"How do you mean to kill us, boy? You haven't even brought a weapon. Perhaps you ought to have planned your murders a bit better."   
  
"Oh, I've got a weapon all right," Tom said.   
  
"What - that stick in your hand? Well, if you're quick, maybe you can poke me in the eye with it!" The old man laughed again, more heartily this time. His wife joined in with a half-suppressed titter. _  
  
Tom had stared at him, unable to believe such smug idiocy. If he were to have a grandparent left to him, why did it have to be this pompous fool, this creature who thought he knew everything, but was ignorant of all that really mattered? Why couldn't it have been his mother's father instead? His Grandfather Marvolo was still a Slytherin House legend nearly ninety years after his school career had ended. Such a man would have taught him, supported him, been the mentor he'd always craved - but instead, he was saddled with a Muggle who mocked and sneered and looked upon him as if he were filth, just one of the tedious by-blows that wealthy families inevitably produced.   
  
Once again, Tom Senior had caught on where his parents failed to. He'd seen the wand, and his eyes had widened in horror.   
  
_"Shut up, both of you. He can do what he says. He has magic."   
  
"Magic?" Mrs. Riddle was still laughing. "Don't be silly."   
  
Tom looked from her to his father.   
  
"Oh, I see," he said. "You didn't tell them. I'm surprised. I thought that would have been your defense. 'A witch seduced me; I didn't know what I was doing!'"   
  
"I didn't need a defense," said Tom Senior. His eyes never left the yew shaft in his son's hand. "They wouldn't have approved of me marrying her, even if I had wanted to after she told me what she was. A woman without a decent name, with no connections in the right circles -"  
  
"She had a name!" snapped Tom. "She was a Marvolo! It's an excellent name, I assure you. In all the circles that count, at any rate. She turned her back on that name to be with you - you, a filthy Muggle who couldn't have understood what she was giving up - and you repaid her by killing her."   
  
"I certainly did not," said his father coldly. "If anyone did that, it was you, wasn't it? They told me you all but tore her apart when you were born, that she bled and bled and no one could stop it. I had nothing to do with that. I didn't want it to happen. It wasn't my fault that she turned out to be an - an abomination." _  
  
Oh, how he'd wanted to strike the man down where he stood! But he'd held on to his self-control, gripping his wand tight enough to leave a white groove in his palm, the words of that long-ago-memorized poem whispering in his mind's ear. _If you can keep your head ... keep your head ..._  
  
_"She died because of you. Don't try to deny it. She could hardly go back to her family after she'd polluted herself with you. If she could have, she would have gotten proper care. She would have been all right. Magic could have saved her - even decent Muggle medicine could have, if you'd been willing to spend a little more of your precious money for it. But you left her, and she died, and even now you're insulting her with your Muggle snobbery, your Muggle stupidity."   
  
"She was a witch!" Tom Senior shouted. "A damned witch! Should I have stayed with her, knowing the truth? Should I have taken in her spawn and raised it in my home?"   
  
"I wouldn't have wanted to be raised in your home," said Tom. "I owe you for that much, at least. You never would have given me the chance to become what I am."   
  
"And what in God's name is that?" asked his grandfather. The old man had long ago stopped laughing and sunk back into his seat. Perspiration glistened on his creased forehead.   
  
Tom smiled for the first time that evening.   
  
"Shall I show you? Do you want to see?" _  
  
To be continued ...  
  
~~~  
  
**Author's Notes:   
  
Iggie, Lyta Padfoot, Ozma, ickle_helena, A Class Superior, The Strange One and Ariana Deralte** - thanks for reviewing Chapter 2!   
  
Sorry this chapter's a little short - I wanted to at least post something, since I haven't updated in a long time. The next (and final) chapter should be up sometime this week. Not much else to say, except that all my thoughts about Tom's wizard grandfather, to whom he refers briefly here, have been influenced by Minerva McTabby's epic _Two Worlds And In Between_. If you haven't read it, go and read it now! 


	4. Endings And Beginnings

**Chapter 4: Endings And Beginnings**  
  
His little trick had only been illusion, really. He'd never been taught the Animagus transformation - not surprising, considering that Dumbledore and his prying protegee were the only people at Hogwarts who might have done so - and hadn't yet had time to study it on his own. But illusion was more than enough for a group of Muggles. The sight of a human-size serpent in their dining room had been almost more than they could bear.   
  
_Mrs. Riddle immediately opened her mouth to shriek, and within his disguise, Tom hissed_ "Vox terminis_," using Parseltongue to add to the effect. He'd learned the previous year that spells worked just as well in that language; it was the intent that truly mattered, not the words.  
  
The sound of her scream was cut off even as it began. She clutched her throat, mouth still open and working, and staggered back into her husband's arms. Unfortunately, the old man was in no condition to catch her; observing the cascades of sweat pouring down his ashen face, Tom mused that a heart attack might well end up being the thing that killed him.   
  
His father looked just as sick and terrified as the elder Riddles, but stayed marginally calmer, probably by virtue of having seen magic performed a time or two before.   
  
"All right, we see! Change back! How can we talk to you when you're like that?"   
  
Tom let the illusion drop. "Nothing left to say, Father. You've had eighteen years to talk to me. The clock's run out. Now move."   
  
The last was said as he gestured toward the hallway doors with his wand. There were too many exits here, and he did not want them escaping the house through one of them - chasing his victims in the dark before killing them was not part of the vision he'd cherished for so many years. He was an executioner, not a hunter. Their deaths were meant to be clean, elegant and swift, coming upon them like bolts from above.   
  
He herded them down the passage and into the first room he encountered, which turned out to be the drawing room. His grandfather immediately collapsed onto a brocade-covered divan, gasping, scrabbling weakly at the front of his dinner jacket as if it were suffocating him.   
  
Tom's grandmother was beyond helping. Her silent screams had not ceased, and from the way she was clutching at her husband's arm, Tom thought she hadn't even noticed his distress.   
  
Grandmother, grandfather, father. He looked at each in turn, wondering which he should take first. Or all three at once? Was that possible? It might be. The forbidden books he'd procured in Knockturn Alley had explained that _ Avada Kedavra_ worked by degrees: a mouse's life force took very little power to snuff out; a cat's a bit more; a wolf's more still. A human required a great deal of power indeed, and three humans would surely require a massive expenditure - but how much?   
  
Had he been given the leisure to work the problem all the way through, he probably would have decided against attempting such a thing. But while he was still considering, Tom Senior interrupted.   
  
"Wait - I've changed my mind about the money. Perhaps we can spare a bit after all. I know you said you didn't care for that, but think what a help it would be to have something to get you started, now that you're grown." As he spoke, he sidled toward a little writing desk that stood against the nearest wall. "There's money in here - I'll just fetch it for you -"  
  
His smooth, manicured hand reached out and suddenly Tom saw a terrible expression cross his face, a look of hatred and cunning and triumph and fear all rolled into one. He could not imagine what sort of treachery the man might be planning; only knew that he had to act. He had to act -_  
  
Now!   
  
_The single word shot through his mind faster than he could have spoken it. Raising his wand high, he brought his arm down fast and straight, like a striking cobra, slashing to the side at the last minute to include all three targets; and still not certain how much power to use, gave it everything he had as he cast the Killing Curse.   
  
Next thing he knew he was all but blind. A great rush of power had gone out of him and exploded from his wand-tip in a brilliant green burst, accompanied by a sensation more intense than any sexual pleasure he'd ever known. Intense, yes, and thrilling, but frightening as well - it felt as if it would never stop, as if he'd put so much of himself into the effort that he would die along with them. What a fine finish that would be to all his plans, wiping himself out before he'd even gotten started._   
  
Hold on, wait for it to pass_ --  
  
He waited, and, slowly, it did pass, ebbing away and leaving him trembling in its wake. His breathing was fast and ragged, but he was still breathing, still standing on shaky legs. The moment was over. He had not died._   
  
I'll have to work on that_, he thought with weary amusement before opening his eyes to view the results of his spell.   
  
Even through the green haze that blurred his vision, he could see it had worked perfectly. They lay unmoving, all three of them, in the places they'd been when he'd begun. Old Mr. Riddle had fallen on his side, fingers locked around a jacket button he would never undo. Mrs. Riddle's mouth was still wide open in an endless, frozen scream. And Tom's father - his father had collapsed facedown on the polished wood floor, right at the base of the desk he'd been trying to reach. One hand was still stretched toward it as if to grasp the drawer handle._   
  
What were you going to do_? Tom wondered. Stepping carefully over his father's legs, so as not to dirty his shoes, he opened the drawer and shuffled through its contents: a few papers, a fountain pen and ink bottle, a used envelope, some loose keys - and a small, deadly-looking pistol.   
  
There was no money. His father had not meant to bribe him, but to blow a hole the size of a Quidditch goal ring in him. Much as he had hated the man, Tom could not help feeling a flicker of respect for such cunning.   
  
He looked down at the sprawled body cloaked in its wavering green aura, thinking how badly he wanted to take a souvenir from it -- nothing too large, just a cufflink or a handkerchief, a token to remind him of this night. But he couldn't do that, he couldn't. He had nearly gotten in serious trouble that way only a few days before. How stupid would it be to make the same mistake twice? The Muggle police would never figure out what had happened to these people, but the Aurors would hear about it too, and recognize the Killing Curse immediately. In these chaotic times, they would most likely blame the deaths on Grindelwald or one of the groups that supported him, rather than on a long-lost wizard relative. Still, they might come looking for Tom, if only to inform him as the next of kin. He wanted no guilty artifacts about him when they did.   
  
It would be unfortunate news. He would greet it with shock. No, sir; no, madam, he had never met his father. Muggle orphanages did not release family information; he only knew his father's name because it was his own as well. He had hoped they might find one another someday ...  
  
His shoulders would droop a little under the sorrow of that lost fantasy, until he squared them resolutely and pulled himself up straight, just as a fine young wizard should. Perhaps he would even let a few tears gather in his eyes so he could blink them back.   
  
That was all in the future, though. Right now, only one thing mattered: getting out of here before anyone happened upon him and started causing trouble.   
  
He turned to leave -- and realized for the first time just how much the triple Killing Curse had taken out of him. He had been too exhilarated by his success to notice it much before. The first step or two went well enough, but by the time he got to the door, he was staggering like a drunk, so weak that he had to brace himself against the wall for a minute to keep from falling. His fingers made damp prints on the champagne silk wallcovering._   
  
Keep going_, he ordered himself, and stumbled out into the hall.   
  
If only his vision would clear. If only everything weren't so green. _  
  
That wish was finally coming true now; looking into the dining room, he saw only a few fading wisps of aura trailing from the candle flames. He blinked hard once, twice, and then even that vanished. The world was perfect again, still and sharp-edged and delicately colored. Even the faint sounds of the servant in the kitchen, placidly working under Imperius, could not spoil it.   
  
With a bit of effort, he managed to start moving again, walking steadily toward the open French doors where he'd first come in. A square of warm golden light fell through the gap, onto the bricks of the terrace, and he paused in its center to look back at the ruined dinner table.   
  
He couldn't picture his family seated around it any longer. It was as if they had never been there at all, as if they'd never existed. He knew this idea should be a sad one - they'd been alive, after all, and that ought to count for something - but there was no sorrow in him. Instead, he felt weightless, and happy, and free. Reveling in that freedom, he stepped out of the light and into the sweet-scented darkness of the night garden.   
  
Unfortunately, feeling good and feeling strong were not the same thing. He had to go somewhere to wait out this magical exhaustion - but where? Apparating was out of the question, there wasn't a Floo-connected fireplace for miles, and he certainly would not lower himself so far as to crawl away and lie in a field like a shepherd.   
  
Ah, but he had a friend down in the village, didn't he? Ellen, who had been so helpful earlier in the day, was the wife of a Muggle soldier; he'd seen a little flag that indicated it in the front window of her house. If she was at all normal, she was worried about her husband and wanted him to come home. It would take only the slightest bit of glamourie to convince her that he had.   
  
Tom thought the plan over quickly. Yes, he had enough power left for that. She would believe, would care for him - his weakness could only work in his favor there - and by morning he would be strong enough to alter her memory and go. He didn't like the thought of relying so heavily on Muggles for help, but he could hardly afford to be squeamish now. Anyway, he'd spent years living among them. A few more hours wouldn't make much difference.   
  
With that decided, he made his way across the grass, separated the fence bars (a good thing he'd left them soft, he thought), and set off at the best pace he could muster. At least the walk was all downhill from here.   
  
~~~  
  
Ellen had armed herself with the fireplace poker when she heard someone knocking at her door. She'd heard there were unscrupulous men out to prey on women whose husbands were away fighting in the war. If this was one of them, he'd soon find out that he'd picked the wrong woman.   
  
_We'll see how dangerous you are with your head bashed in_, she thought grimly as she opened the door a crack and peered out.   
  
When she saw who was on the doorstep, she dropped the poker at her slipper-clad feet and screamed.   
  
"_Robert_! But I thought you wouldn't be here for weeks yet! Months! What's happened? You aren't wounded?"   
  
"I'm fine," soothed her husband. He looked so _handsome_! Weary, and thinner than he'd been the last time she'd seen him, but wonderful in spite of it. She flung herself upon him, nearly sobbing with relief to see him home and safe.   
  
"Careful -" He put his arms out stiffly to ward her off, and her elation turned to hurt in an instant. She'd missed him so much -- hadn't he missed her? It was too cruel for him to push her away like this.   
  
But, she realized, she would have to be understanding. He had been gone for so long, after all, and had seen terrible things; it was only natural for him to seem a little different. And that didn't matter. All that mattered was that he was here.   
  
She wiped tears off her face with the sleeve of her purple dressing gown and mustered up a smile for him. His answering smile wasn't quite the one she remembered, but it warmed her anyway.   
  
"Well, don't just stand on the doorstep, silly," she said. "Come inside. Welcome home."   
  
**End**  
  
~~~  
  
Thanks to Random Slytherin 1, ickle-helena, Thespia, Lyta Padfoot, Ariana Deralte, Jelsemium, Ozma and animegirl-mika for reviewing, and to Confutatis, Tinderblast, Minerva McTabby and Faith Accompli for commenting on the excerpts in my LiveJournal.   
  
ickle-helena: The Riddles remind me a lot of the Dursleys too, in many ways. Both families are well-to-do (though the Dursleys strike me as nouveau riche, and the Riddles as people who have had their money for a while), have one nasty son, and are generally unpleasant types. I think that's one of the parallels between Tom and Harry.   
  
Jelsemium: Thanks for catching that wand mistake - I went back and fixed it immediately!   
  
Ozma: I felt sorry for Tom myself. By the time I finished writing that last chapter, I was almost looking forward to killing the Riddles off. ;-) Oh, and to both you and Jelsemium - I loved "Squib Summer," and promise to review it as soon as I can.   
  
Well, that's it for this one. Next up: Chapter 8 of "The Shadowchasers." Thanks for reading, everyone. (And if anyone else wants a LiveJournal, let me know - I still have codes just wasting away, waiting for happy homes!) 


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